


know thyself

by HowDoTheyRiseUp



Series: you tragic, misfiring bird [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), White Collar
Genre: Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Cassandra Cain is Batgirl, Dick Grayson is Not Nightwing, Neal Caffrey is Dick Grayson, Robin: Year One AU, Secrets, Tim Drake is Robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowDoTheyRiseUp/pseuds/HowDoTheyRiseUp
Summary: Interlude to ch. 14 ofdon't save the world, save yourselfNothing good ever starts with the wordsdon’t tell Bruce.
Series: you tragic, misfiring bird [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880212
Comments: 44
Kudos: 209





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic runs parallel to ch. 14 of _don't save the world, save yourself,_ and won't make any sense of you haven't read that. For those that have, enjoy a brief peek at what's going on in Gotham while Neal & friends are running around in New York.
> 
> Title is a reference to one of the Delphic Maxims engraved above the entrance to the oracle at Delphi in Ancient Greece. The most famous maxims are, respectively, _know thyself_ and _nothing in excess._

> [2:18 PM]
> 
> **Tim:** don’t tell Bruce
> 
> **Tim:** code 1047 i’ll explain later
> 
> **Tim:** ok going radio silent. Talk after mission

* * *

“Absolutely not.”

“O…” Zinda sounds distinctly uncomfortable.

“No, Z. Just… no.”

“But Kori…”

“Look, I love Kori. She’s one of my best team leaders, and I trust her judgement _absolutely_ in the field. And you know what? I have absolutely no problem with her dating whoever she wants to on her personal time. That’s her business, and she’s a big girl who makes her own decisions. But there is no way in hell I’m giving _Roy Freaking Harper_ security clearance for the Tower. It’s not happening.”

“He’s not so bad,” Zinda says, without conviction. “Kori says he’s really cleaning up his act— for the kid, you know? And Canary—”

“—Is not exactly objective on this,” Barbara finishes the thought for her, but more gently now. Almost five years of leadership have taught her a lot about when to stand firm and when to be soft. “Look, I respect what Roy is doing. I know exactly how hard it can be when you’re stuck in a dark place, to turn your life around and try to make something good. I wish him all the best. But my job is to protect this team, and right now, I just don’t think it’s wise.”

Zinda’s image on the screen looks resigned but not particularly surprised. “Yeah, kinda figured you’d say that. Kori won’t be too happy, though.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Barbara promises. “I’ll make sure she knows it’s just a security precaution, and not a judgment on him. Or her.”

“Better you than me,” Zinda mutters. “Well, that was all I had. How’s Gotham?”

“I’d say quiet, but that would be a lie,” Barbara says wryly. “No crazier than usual, at least.”

“And your old man? He’s still in Gotham, isn’t he?”

“Couldn’t drag him out,” Barbara snorts. “But yeah, he’s good, thanks for asking.”

Zinda grins at her, but her eyes flick somewhere over Barbara’s shoulder and that’s all the warning she gets before a pair of black-clad arms wrap around her neck and squeeze.

Barbara Gordon has faced her fair share of ninjas and assassins, prowlers and cat burglars, but there is one person who can sneak up on her without fail.

“Hello, Cassandra,” she says calmly, placing her hands on the girl’s elbows as she leans into the hug. “How was patrol?”

A shrug, unmistakeable through their close contact, and the sharp point of her chin settles onto Barbara’s shoulder as Cass blinks at the screen.

“Hey, Cass,” Zinda greets her fondly. “You keeping those punks in line over there?”

The chin in Barbara’s shoulder digs in a little deeper as Cass nods.

“Did you need me for something?” Barbara asks her, turning her head so that they’re practically nose-to-nose. “Or just checking in?”

One of the deceptively strong arms around Barbara’s neck retracts momentarily, only to reappear in front of her face holding something that Barbara recognizes as her own phone.

“Thanks,” she says, taking it from her. She must have left it in the gym earlier. She thumbs it on, and swears.

Nothing good ever starts with the words _don’t tell Bruce._

Zinda’s still watching, brow raised. “Everything ok?”

“Just… Bat drama.” Barbara can feel her smile is a little tight, but Zinda doesn’t comment. “You know how it is.”

“Family can be rough,” Zinda agrees, and Barbara makes a face but doesn’t bother to dispute it. Not with Cass still half-draped over her in a hug that doesn’t seem like it’s ending any time soon. “Well, I’ll leave you guys to it. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will,” Barbara promises. “Thanks, babe. Talk later.”

“You got it, O.”

The window goes dark as the call ends, and Barbara turns her full attention to Tim’s texts.

Code 1047. ‘Emotionally compromised’.

(10:47 PM. The exact time that Bruce’s parents died. Thirty years later, and he still uses it as the passcode for half the Cave’s systems. Talk about _emotionally compromised._ )

Barbara likes Tim. He’s a good kid, if way too stubborn for his own good.

But as crazy as she thought he was back at the beginning, he’s been a good influence on Bruce. Stabilized him, back when Bruce was doing his very best to implode. Tim undoubtedly saved his life.

Sometimes, though, Barbara wonders if they should have been less concerned with _Tim’s_ influence on _Bruce_ , and more with _Bruce’s_ influence on _Tim_.

_You bet your tights we will_ , she texts him back, knowing that he won’t see it for hours.

Doesn’t matter. It’s not like he can hide from _her_.

“I need my hands for a minute,” she informs Cass, and the girl obligingly loosens her grip enough for Barbara to slip both hands out and reach the keyboard.

Given the vagueness of Tim’s texts, she assumes at first that the catalyst will be obvious. But she finds nothing— no alerts, no emergencies, nothing that she can imagine warranting such a warning.

It’s actually Cassandra who notices the notification first, tapping Barbara on the shoulder and pointing at one of the secondary monitors.

It takes Barbara a moment to recognize the notification flashing on the screen; this particular one is practically obsolete nowadays, an old dark web chatroom that she'd used as her own personal message board back when she was just starting out as Oracle. She hasn't used it in… what, five years? Definitely not since the Birds became official; once she'd taken that leap of faith with Dinah and Helena and Donna, that kind of utter anonymity had become... unnecessary.

But she'd kept the alert, just in case, and apparently someone is in the mood to indulge their nineties nostalgia today.

"Thanks," she tells Cass belatedly, fingers already pulling up her old portal.

When her avatar materializes in the chatroom, there's only one user waiting for her. The avatar is one of the generic, preprogrammed options, and the username a string of randomly generated gibberish, but she makes a note of both, just in case.

She makes the first overture, her fingers skimming across the keyboard.

> 0RACL3: not many ppl kno abt this room
> 
> 0RACL3: who r u
> 
> 0RACL3: ?

It's not the most diplomatic of openings, but something about this whole thing is… off. Tim’s cryptic texts, conveniently timed right when he would be unreachable, reaching out over an outdated and ungovernable platform to make contact… It’s suspicious. And Oracle didn’t make it this far by being reckless.

She doesn't even wait for a reply before activating another of her old programs. One of the many draws of the dark web for criminals and vigilantes alike is its guaranteed anonymity. It's practically impossible to track someone down so long as they know their way around a decent VPN. It's a modern-day Labyrinth, in many ways.

Well. As anyone familiar with Classical mythology could tell you, even a Labyrinth is not impassable with a little determination, ingenuity, and a ball of string.

She hits _enter_ and watches her code spool out into the darkness even as the chatroom dings with a new message.

> e9&mW: little brdie told me
> 
> e9&mW: thought u could help my freind
> 
> e9&mW: hi, btw

Cass makes an inquisitive noise, reading over her shoulder.

“It’s chatspeak,” Barbara informs her before she can ask. “Shortened speech used online or over text. B-T-W is an abbreviation for ‘by the way’.”

Cass’ language skills have improved by leaps and bounds over the past few years, but she still tends to struggle with reading and slang.

So she’s a little surprised when Cass says, “I know.”

“You do?”

Cass hums lightly in the back of her throat. “Steph,” she says simply, and Barbara nods in understanding, refocusing on the conversation.

_wat kind of birdie?_ she types, just to make sure, adding _hi_ as an afterthought

The other user responds almost immediately, a rapid-fire barrage of messages that make her think they were just waiting for her to ask.

> e9&mW: the red breasted kind
> 
> e9&mW: that really needs to lay off the caffiene
> 
> e9&mW: and the vigilanteism
> 
> e9&mW: but thats none of my budisness
> 
> e9&mW: busines*
> 
> e9&mW: BUSINESS**

Barbara can't hold back a snort, even as her fingers are already flying across the keyboard. Her program is still chasing the thread, but it’s already managed to narrow down the continent— whoever this is, they’re somewhere in North America.

> 0RACL3: sounds like a very clever little bird
> 
> 0RACL3: and wat kind of help did this bird think i could give ur friend?

She’s cautious, still, but curious as well. The caffeine comment— that’s definitely Tim. What’s more, it implies a certain level of casual familiarity; someone who’s spent at least enough time with him to notice his frankly unhealthy intake.

And yet Robin had sent them here, rather than to one of her direct lines. Why?

What is he up to?

> e9&mW: easier to explian on the phone. u got a #??
> 
> 0RACL3: sorry, i don't give my numb#r to strange men

It’s a total shot in the dark, but the reply tells her that she’s correct.

> e9&mW: rude
> 
> e9&mW: but fair point

She catches herself smirking, and— is she _flirting?_ Good grief, maybe Dinah is right about her ‘tragic’ lack of a love life.

> e9&mW: T said to tell u *hacktitude*??

It almost goes right over her head. She’s already started typing a pithy response, pinky actually resting on the _enter_ key, when it hits her.

T said.

_T._

As in, Tim.

Not Robin. _Tim._

No. No, Tim knows better than that, he _knows_ how important the Secret is, he wouldn’t—

> e9&mW: u still there?

Cassandra is watching her, head tilted slightly. Her expression is neutral.

Barbara forces a thin smile onto her face. “Would you mind giving me a few minutes, please? I think I should probably take this one alone.”

The arms around her squeeze gently then release as Cass straightens and nods. “I will… be in the gym. Call me when you need me.”

Barbara smiles at her more genuinely, and then refocuses on her screen as Cass’ light steps fade away.

> 0RACL3: wat do u mean *T* said?
> 
> e9&mW: u kno wat I mean

As soon as Tim gets back safe and sound, Barbara is going to _kill_ him.

> 0RACL3: give me ur #. i'll call u

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure is quite obvious, I have less than zero idea how dark web/IP tracing works. So, forgive me if it's completely inaccurate. I plead comic book logic?
> 
> Expect 1-2 more chapters before we get back to our main action in NYC.
> 
> Thanks for reading, stay safe and healthy!


	2. Chapter 2

Barbara was fifteen years old when her father came home from work one day even grimmer than usual and dragged her into a tight embrace.

“Dad?” she’d questioned, half-smothered in his shoulder. “Are you okay? Did something happen at work?”

The bristles of his mustache tickled at her scalp as he pressed a kiss into her hairline. “Nothing, Babs. Just… I love you so much, baby girl. So, so much. If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know what I—”

He said no more that night, but she heard the rumors all the same.

_Robin is missing. Dead. Ran away. Retired. Kidnapped. Gone._

Barbara was fifteen years old when the most famous boy in the world disappeared.

There was no funeral. No Amber Alert. No picture on a milk carton. Barbara watched as her father pushed for an investigation and was told to shut up and focus on his own cases.

She’d felt bad for him, of course, but the kind of bad you felt for tragedy in the news, or an injustice that happened to a friend of a friend. It was a principled kind of outrage, the kind of thing that appealed to her sense of justice— but it never felt personal.

Jason was different.

For one, he was _real_ in a way that the first Robin had never been to Barbara. She’d never had much of an emotional connection to the memory of a boy who lived only in Alfred’s stories and B’s silences and hundreds of hours of grainy Cave security footage.

_Dick Grayson_ had only ever been an abstract idea, an almost mythological figure.

Jason… Jason had been the little brother she’d never really wanted. He’d been the kid who geeked out over classical literature and slopped chili dogs down his shirt and bled onto her college textbooks. He’d been the kid who was the sole heir to a billion-dollar fortune and still patched his old sneakers with duct tape.

“Gotta make ‘em last, Barbie,” he’d told her cheerfully, helping himself to a seventh piece of pizza as he curled into the gap between her couch and coffee table. “Soles’re still good, anyway.” There had been a smear of pizza grease across the top of his chemistry homework where it lay abandoned after their tutoring session.

Barbara’d just rolled her eyes and told him to pass the pepperoni.

They’d buried him in the Wayne family plot two months later. The funeral was closed-casket, presumably to spare them the pain of seeing what had been done to him. As soon as the ceremony concluded, she’d gone home and hacked her way into the autopsy reports and promptly been sick. That time, her father had been the one who held _her_ as she leaked bitter tears.

There’s a reason that they treat Tim so differently from his predecessors and (despite what he might think), it’s not because he’s any less skilled or dangerous.

Once is a tragedy.

Twice is a pattern.

Three times? Well, three times would be _criminal negligence_.

Timothy Drake will not be another martyr. Not if she has anything to say about it.

Even if that means occasionally cleaning up messes that _he should have known better than to let get this far_.

“You have exactly two minutes,” she says, knowing that even her top-of-the-line software won’t fully filter out the steel in her voice, “to convince me why I shouldn’t _hunt you down_ and _digitally destroy you_ as a major security leak.”

It’s not an idle threat; she’s done as much before, when others have gotten too close to certain Secrets that were not theirs to know.

(And yet, somehow, Batman has more nemeses who know his secret identity than Superman does. _Superman_. After Bane had found out, Barbara had suggested that Bruce might want to invest in glasses, since that seemed to be the only disguise that was _somehow_ virtually impenetrable.)

(And she’d only been half joking, too.)

“Oracle, I presume?”

“One minute and fifty-six seconds,”

“Look. I’m a friend, okay? I just need some help, and Tim told me you were the best. I need some… tech support.”

Tim’s _friend_ has a voice that’s somehow both younger and deeper than she’d expected. From the first word, she can tell that he’s a charmer.

Barbara is unimpressed.

“This isn’t the Geek Squad,” she snaps.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Conciliatory. Not rising to her challenge. “Just, a friend of mine has been taken— kidnapped. We know who has her, but we don’t know where. I need to trace the kidnapper’s phone, but I don’t have access to the kind of resources that I need. That’s it— just a location, that’s all I need.”

What a coincidence. That’s just what _she_ needs, too.

Phones—even outmoded, disposable burners—are much easier to trace than dark web proxies. The thread pulls tighter— Continental US.

_Tighter._

Eastern Seaboard.

_Tighter._

New York City.

Triangulating from cell towers is all well and good, but it can’t compete with the strength and accuracy of the Watchtower’s geolocators.

Good thing she knows a guy.

The thread pulls taut and the location flashes across her screen, first at longitude and latitude, and then as a street address.

_There you are._

“If you know who the kidnapper is, why don’t you just tell the NYPD?”

There’s just enough of a pause that she can tell he didn’t expect her to know his location.

And what a location it is. Even just from the satellite images— well, not even Brucie Wayne would turn up his nose at a house like _that_.

She sets in a search for the property records as Tim’s _friend_ decides how to respond.

He seems to be picking his words carefully. “This guy is dangerous. And it’s— personal.”

“That’s usually when it’s best to leave it to the professionals.”

That’s practically rule number one in this business— the whole reason why they bothered to make a _code 1047_.

It’s also one of the most-ignored rules. The _Community_ , as Dinah sometimes euphemistically calls it, tends to be more of the _do as I say, not as I do_ nature.

Not that this guy should have any reason to know that.

Still, he seems irritated by the advice. “This isn’t my first rodeo,” he retorts. “I know what I’m doing.”

Property records list the owner as a June Ellington, born 1935, widowed, and quite clearly not Barbara’s caller. More interestingly, the property has been flagged by the FBI and— _Federal Marshals?_

“ _How_ do you know Tim, exactly?” she demands. There’s not much point dancing around it at this point, and even if he doesn’t answer directly—and from his vagueness so far, she highly doubts he will—she wants to see how he _does_ answer.

“I met him a few months ago,” he says slowly. “In New York. I helped him out of a tough spot, he said I could give him a call if I ever needed help. Which I do.”

A few months ago. What was Tim doing in New York a few months ago?

A few keystrokes, and— _there_.

Stolen kryptonite being converted to jewelry and fenced to unsuspecting upper-crust socialites. Strange, but hardly the most bizarre plot she’s ever come across. Nothing that Tim shouldn’t have been able to handle on his own.

Except he apparently hadn’t. Not completely on his own, at least. Rather than simply returning it to the League directly, or even dropping it at one of the many secure WayneTech facilities in the cities, Tim had _voluntarily_ handed it over to— the FBI, again, which is one _hell_ of a coincidence.

The mission report seems oddly incomplete, though. Sparse. She thumbs in a command to bring up Tim’s personal notes on the case, and—

_No results found._

Shit.

Up to this point, she’d harboured some small hope that there was a perfectly innocent explanation for all of this. That Tim had perhaps been exposed accidentally and Bruce had simply been his usual compartmentalized self when it came to sharing that information with others— that Tim’s request for her silence now was because he was defying the Bat’s orders for no further contact. That this all really is just a case of Tim wanting to help a friend.

But this…

Tim is almost as anal as Bruce is about recording his case notes. It’s been drilled into his head: A good detective is meticulous in his record-keeping. Every detail could be significant, if not today, then ten years down the line. And Tim is nothing if not meticulous.

So the fact that he could leave a case—especially one still classified as ‘open’—so bare…

It’s telling. _Something_ happened on that mission in New York, something that Tim won’t risk committing to digital record, something that he believes will _emotionally compromise_ Batman.

She’s been silent for a few minutes too long.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” The _friend_ sounds agitated. “I don’t know how to make you trust me. Yes, I know about Tim. I know about Robin. I know the _big secret._ ”

The assertion leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Tim himself is proof that once one identity is compromised, the others are that much more vulnerable. Unfortunately, there’s no way of determining just how far the damage goes without tipping him off that there are other Secrets at stake.

The _friend_ continues on, impervious, “But right now, all I care about is helping my friend.” The depth of feeling in his voice, at least, seems genuine. “So will you help me, or not?”

Like she could ever leave an innocent in jeopardy, no matter _what_ kind of mess Tim has dragged her into.

She sighs. “Give me the number.”

“What?”

“The number. The kidnapper’s number.”

He does.

It’s another burner, which doesn’t surprise her at this point. Clearly, _whoever_ these people are, they’re not your average, run-of-the-mill civilians.

It takes her only a few moments to find the information he needs. Or, rather— to _not_ find the information he needs. She’s able to provide a general area, but his kidnapper is either extremely paranoid or really knows what they’re doing because the trail just goes dead.

(And if she simultaneously cross-references every scrap of digital data she can pull with both Tim’s frustratingly bare mission report and the FBI’s disappointingly-easy-to-crack internal network, that’s no one’s business but her own.)

(She once quarterbacked two concurrent near-apocalyptic crises while on a surprise blind date arranged _by her father._ As far as multitasking goes, this hardly even registers.)

He seems to be opening up to her—just a bit—now that she’s agreed to help. He finally gives her the kidnapper’s name, and agrees to maintain contact.

When he thanks her—using her codename without even the slightest hint of irony or self-consciousness—she figures it’s worth pushing her luck a little.

“You’re welcome, Random Civilian.”

There’s an amused little huff from the other end of the line, and he clearly knows exactly what she’s doing, but he gives it to her anyway.

“Neal,” he says simply. “Neal Caffrey.”

Barbara smiles. “You’re welcome,” she repeats, adjusting her glasses against the flash of many screens coming alive at once, “Neal Caffrey.”

It’s as good a parting line as any.

She takes a moment to add one more message to the queue that will be waiting for Tim when he finally returns from his mission.

_When you get back, come by the clocktower. I think we need to have a talk._

Message sent, she turns her attention back to the vast maze of information waiting right at her fingertips.

Well, Mister ‘Neal Caffrey’ of the FBI, time to find out _exactly_ what you’re hiding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 finished! Probably one more after this, and then we get back to the main story.
> 
> I'm trying to decide if I should leave this one as a separate fic or, once it's finished, just merge it into one chapter in the main fic. Right now, the only reason it's being posted as a separate fic is because the chapters are so much shorter than the main story. But the final product will probably end up about the same length as a normal update.
> 
> Thoughts? Opinions?
> 
> Last note, keep an eye on the main fic, there should be a couple of illustrations being added in the next few days to spice things up a bit.
> 
> Thank you so much everybody, and stay safe and healthy!


	3. Chapter 3

Well.

Neal Caffrey is… not FBI.

There are two files open on the screen before her. The first is dauntingly long and the second, somehow even _longer_.

_Keller, Matthew J._

_Caffrey, Neal G._

She’d had to try a few spelling variations before she’d found the correct individuals, but once she had— Good _grief_.

It’s almost fascinating, in a perverse way; racketeering, forgery, burglary, embezzlement, theft of property, identity fraud, art theft, grand larceny. And that’s just _Caffrey_.

There’s a mugshot included in the file and, _yeah_ , Barbara can see how that face could talk people out of their prized Picassos. Hel- _lo_ cheekbones.

And he’s clearly _smart_ ; for all his suspected crimes, the only one he was ever convicted on was bond forgery, of all things. But based on the notes from the case agent, he’s the main suspect (really, the _only_ suspect) in at least five high-profile robberies totalling an estimated 7.03 _million_ dollars. And yet, not a single viable piece of physical or digital evidence.

And most interestingly of all, although Mr. Caffrey is very definitely _not_ law enforcement, that’s not to say he has no connection to the FBI.

Sentenced to four years in prison, and weeks from getting out he decides to break out, is re-arrested within five hours, and then immediately turns around and becomes a criminal consultant for the same man who arrested him.

You couldn’t _make_ this stuff up.

It’s almost enough for Barbara to shake her head in disbelief, but it doesn’t even stop there— in the two years Caffrey has spent on work-release with the FBI, his team has somehow managed to achieve a 92.13% closure rate, successfully navigated at least two near-international incidents, and successfully locate one of the most wanted white-collar fugitives of the past fifty years, Vincent Adler.

And just recently, they also _happened_ to recover almost six kilograms of blackmarket kryptonite in a single day.

‘Anonymous tip’, according to the FBI’s own files.

Tim, definitely. But it still doesn’t answer _why_.

Had Tim approached him, or vice versa? Was Caffrey connected, somehow, to the original theft from the Justice League warehouse?

She flips back to the mugshot. There’s something almost familiar about him. Very familiar.

It’s irritating, like trying to do a puzzle with the picture side down.

Well... if Tim hadn't left any clues in his report, there's one other place she can try.

Bruce has never bothered to give her admin access to the Batcomputer, but she's never needed it. She designed half the security protocols.

She starts with Tim's activity in the two weeks immediately surrounding the kryptonite case. As expected, most of it is completely relevant research into individuals and organizations with the resources to pull off the heist. There are a few chat logs between Tim and Connor Kent that Barbara skims through fondly. Their messages seem to consist of 90% memes and arguments about video games. _Boys_.

She expands the radius; more case notes, blueprints for some of the locations he’d infiltrated to retrieve the kryptonite. An email to his school (sent from Bruce Wayne’s email) excusing him for three weeks for ‘health-related issues’.

(She’ll have to check what excuse he used this time— Mono? Appendicitis? At this rate, he’s going to run out of believable illnesses long before graduation.)

Wait— _there_. There’s a gap in the activity log. Something that Tim had deleted from his own history.

Tim may be a true prodigy when it comes to computers, but she’s _Oracle_. It isn’t easy to recover what has been purged, but she can do it. Her glasses dig into the bridge of her nose, but she ignores the discomfort. There… and then she just has to… right, and access the… _got it_.

Time to see what Tim’s been trying to hide.

Her first thought, when she sees that the recovered file is a video file, is _Timothy Jackson Drake, this had better not be porn._

She knows that, whatever else he may be, Tim is still a sixteen-year-old boy, but—

For the sake of her sanity, please. No porn.

To her surprise, she recognizes the file code. Cave security footage. The date and time stamp are almost ten years old.

Curious, she opens the file, and— oh, _Tim_.

The video is old, grainy in a way that the Cave cameras haven't been since before even she started as Batgirl, but those colors are unmistakeable.

_“Alright, chum,”_ Bruce is saying to the dark-haired boy in the red-and-green. _“Show me that move again.”_

_“You sure, old man?”_ Robin teases, bouncing on his toes. His voice is higher than Jason’s ever was, cheekier than Tim can manage even on his best days. _“I dunno, don’t want you to bust a hip!”_

_“I’ll show you a busted hip,”_ Bruce growls playfully, sliding into a ready stance.

Richard Grayson cackles and springs at him.

Bruce ducks the first blow and throws up an arm to block the kick aimed at his head, but when hemoves to counter, the kid flows right around his strikes like his spine is a fluid.

Bruce lashes out with a sweeping kick, and the boy dips smoothly underneath like the fight is a dance choreographed just for him.

_“Good,”_ grunts Bruce when the boy manages to land what must be a stinging needle of a punch to outside of his knee. _“Keep out of my reach and go for the weak points. Now press the advantage.”_

Robin flies at him— almost literally _flies_ , launches himself into some sort of complex flip that even Barbara would have been jealous of back in her Batgirl days.

Too bad that Bruce is ready for him; one hand darts up to catch that slim ankle and tosses him clean across the mats. Robin goes tumbling and slams to a stop on his back with an audible _whoomph_.

_“Excellent,”_ Bruce says, and his voice is warmer that Barbara’s ever heard it. The video quality isn’t high enough to be able to tell for sure, but she thinks he might even be… smiling. _“That was excellent, Dick. You’re improving admirably.”_

Grayson pushes himself up onto his elbows. _“But I lost!”_

_“Yes, you did. You got knocked down. So what do we do now?”_

Robin looks at him for a moment, and then rolls backward over his shoulder and lands lightly on his feet. He straightens slowly, already back in a fighting position. _“We get back up.”_

_“That’s right, chum. We get back up. Ready to go again?”_

_“You bet!”_

…Porn might actually have been less worrying than this.

She'd thought, really thought, that Tim had moved past this.

She's always known that Tim has an obsessive personality (part of the reason he and Bruce get along so well) and fairly severe self-esteem issues, but of all his unusual habits, she's always thought this was one of the unhealthiest.

She can remember when Tim first started as Robin—before it was official, when Bruce refused to acknowledge him as anything more than a civilian who refuse to stay out of danger—how Tim would spend hours sitting alone in a dark cave, watching those videos over and over again. Like, somehow, watching his predecessors laugh and train and live would somehow—she doesn't even know.

She'd only tried talking to him about it once.

"It helps me," Tim had said, fiddling with the edge of his cape. "Dick and Jason... They were the _real_ Robins. I can't let them down."

And then, just a few months later, one of Tim's _'real Robins'_ came back from the dead, tried to murder the Joker, beat the shit out of Tim himself, and then turned around and insisted that Bruce make his Robin-hood official ' _or else'_.

It's enough to give _anyone_ whiplash.

But she'd thought... She'd thought Tim had settled into the role. Stopped doubting himself—and his place in the family—quite so much.

Apparently not.

On the screen, Robin springs at Batman and is dumped neatly on the mats once more. Bruce rolls his shoulder briefly and extends a hand to pull Robin to his feet. Robin takes it and bounces back to his feet, enthusiasm undimmed.

_“Can we fly now?”_

Bruce says something that the microphones don’t quite pick up, but it must be an affirmative because he whoops and darts away towards the trapeze rig that resides along one end of the cave.

The kid looks like he can’t be more than twelve, or maybe an exceptionally small thirteen. About the same age that Jason started. A little younger than Tim. But—if Barbara’s math is right—this kid is closer to the end of his career than the beginning.

Sometimes she really wonders what would have happened if Bruce had stopped there. If he’d taken Dick Grayson’s… death, disappearance, whatever it was as a sign to get out of the underage sidekick business for good.

Would he still have adopted Jason, if not to fill the gaping void that was Robin? What would Jason’s life have been like, if he’d only ever been Bruce’s _son_ and never his _soldier_?

And what about Tim? If Bruce had actively tried to stop Tim from taking on the mantle rather than just refusing to acknowledge the issue, what would have become of _him_? Would he have stayed hidden away in his family’s cold and empty mansion while his parents jetted around the world without him?

Would Cassandra have been left to the (nonexistent) mercies of David Cain?

What about Barbara herself, even? She’d been an adult only technically when she’d sewn her first cowl. Bruce hadn’t exactly been encouraging when she’d first started, but like Tim, he’d also never actively tried to stop her. Barbara likes to think that she was determined enough that no one and nothing could have changed her mind, but…

Well. It was bad enough when her dad just _suspected_. If he’d ever had actual _proof_ back then, she’s pretty sure he would have handcuffed her to his desk until she was fifty.

It’s a little more difficult to watch the figures onscreen as they move to the edge of the camera’s field of view. It’s been years since Barbara spared much thought for the trapeze rig that still sits, mostly unused, in a dark corner of the cave. It’s just another one of Bruce’s morbid memorials, like Jason’s old Robin uniform, or the study that remains utterly unchanged from the day its owner and his wife were gunned down in front of their only son.

Barbara knows the basics of trapeze, in theory; like gymnastics, many of the basic skills translate well to urban vigilanteism. But she’s hardly an expert.

Dick Grayson launches himself from the platform like gravity wouldn’t _dare_ pull him down.

He barely even seems to notice that he’s swinging 20 feet off the ground as he kicks his legs up and over the bar.

_“B, are you watching?”_ he calls, upside down with his bright yellow cape flapping awkwardly around his ears, the picture of unsullied elation.

_“I see you, chum.”_ Bruce's voice is so uncharacteristically warm, and everything about his body language so soft that Barbara considers for the first time that Tim might not watch these just to feel close to _Robin_.

Barbara sighs and clicks away from the window so that the activity log is back on top. Tim's emotional issues will have to wait until this whole 'Caffrey' issue is resolved.

But with no clues in Tim's recent activity, she's not really sure what the next step is. It's not like she even has eyes in New York right now, let alone anyone that she would trust to deal with potential private Bat business...

...but then again, it isn't as if New York is really _that_ far away, is it? And while she can't go personally, there is _someone_ that she trusts almost as much as she trusts herself...

What was it Cass had said as she was leaving? _'Let me know when you need me'?_

'When'. Not 'If'.

Barbara's trained her well.

She presses the button for the intercom, and lets her fingers drum once across the keyboard as she considers the files still spread across her screen.

"Hey, Cass. How would you feel about a trip to New York?"

On her screen, the memory of Dick Grayson hangs by his knees from the swinging bar, singing softly to himself.

_"He flies through the air with the greatest of ease, that daring young man on the flying Trapeze..._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because clearly we needed more second-hand Tim-angst. Just don't picture little brand-new Robin Tim sitting and watching videos of his two 'dead' predecessors... for hours... in a dark, empty Cave... and then going home to his equally empty house because his parents went on another trip without him...
> 
> Yeah, don't imagine any of that.
> 
> Incidentally, if anyone hasn't checked it out yet, there's some new art for the main story.
> 
> Next update will be on the main story, but I think this might stay separate after all and have one more chapter that would take place after ch. 15 of _don't save the world, save yourself_
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, and hopefully see you soon with the next update!


	4. Chapter 4

The circus. The actual _circus._

It's amazing how fast her brain moves from _hah, just like—_ to _he couldn't actually be—_

It's insane. It's implausible. It's terrifyingly, horribly _credible._

_God dammit, Tim, you actually did it. You found Dick_ **_friggin’_ ** _Grayson._

She pulls up the Caffrey mugshot again and she can _see_ it: black hair, blue eyes, strong features. Just like every other Robin.

But she knows better than to jump to conclusions— and she knows the implications if her theory is correct. She needs _proof_ , more than a general resemblance and some clueless FBI agent dropping hints that he clearly doesn't understand. Proof. Solid, forensic, _objective_ proof. If she's right, Bruce is going to 1047 himself into a mental breakdown.

“Don't worry," she promises Burke, "Everything is under control.”

It's been hours since she'd sent Cass to New York; Barbara had filled her in on the basics (hostage situation, probable ally but identities compromised) and asked her to keep a low profile until they had more information.

Barbara calls her now, even as she sets the computer to another task.

Cass answers immediately. "Batgirl."

Even with years of distance and all her pride in Cassandra, it's still bittersweet to hear her own codename used by someone else. But Barbara can't stop herself from smiling.

"Hey, BG. Got an update."

One of the things to know about Cass is that she doesn't feel the need to fill empty spaces with unnecessary noise. Barbara suspects she still doesn't quite understand the social cues associated with conversational filler, and so she just waits. Patiently. Until someone has something relevant to contribute.

Barbara doesn't make her wait. "Our contact came through," she says. "We have a probable location on the hostage. I'm sending you the coordinates. We know there's at least one hostile, probably armed, possibly more. The hostage's name is Elizabeth Burke, about 5'5", brown hair."

"Understood."

"One more thing." Barbara takes a deep breath. "Our contact. Tim's... friend. I have a fix on his phone's GPS, I'll send you the beacon. One the hostage is safe, I want you to try and get eyes on him, if you can. No contact, just... I want your read on him."

"Ok." Another thing to know about Cass is that she doesn't ask many questions.

Barbara hesitates a moment. One one hand, she doesn't want to bias Cass' evaluation, but on the other...

"Has Bruce ever told you anything about... the first Robin?"

Cass doesn't answer immediately. "A little. Not much."

Barbara doesn't bother to elaborate. It's unnecessary. Cass can put the rest together easily enough.

"Good luck," she says instead, and closes the line.

A notification beeps at her and she pinches hard at the bridge of her nose to ward off the stemming migraine.

> R01-RGRAYSON // XC479-NCAFFREY
> 
> FACIAL COMPARISON
> 
> RESULT: 93.9749% PROBABILITY MATCH

Goddammit, Tim.

Caffrey’s— _Grayson’s_ —file looks very different with the knowledge of his true identity. Those heists that seemed so mysterious and impressive— he’s Bat-trained. His easy knowledge of The Secret— he _is_ The Secret.

And if any of the rumors about his disappearance are accurate, he might also be a killer.

She’s not necessarily judging— she’s not Bruce. She doesn’t know the whole story. Barbara was raised as the daughter of a cop. She knows the world isn’t as black-and-white as Bruce’s rules make it seem. Good-bad, hero-villain, victim-killer. Just look at Jason.

(If she’d had a gun when the Joker came to her door— when he was _touching_ her— taking _pictures_ — Well. Bruce would’ve just had to live with it.)

No, she won’t pass judgment.

Not without more information.

Good thing Bruce hoards information like old ladies hoard tacky gewgaws and bits of string.

> **R01-RGRAYSON**
> 
> NAME: RICHARD JOHN GRAYSON
> 
> ALIAS: ROBIN
> 
> DOB: 1986/03/21
> 
> STATUS: MISSING

As far as Barbara is aware, Bruce has never once admitted to the possibility that Grayson— Caffrey— _Dick_ might be dead. 10 years without a sign, and always just ‘missing’.

Well, not anymore.

She skims the rest of the biographical information. Physical appearance.

> HAIR COLOR: BLACK/DARK BROWN
> 
> EYE COLOR: BLUE
> 
> HEIGHT: ?
> 
> WEIGHT: ?
> 
> IDENTIFYING MARKS: SCAR (KNIFE, UPPER LEFT TRAPEZIUS), SCAR (GSW, LOWER LEFT CALF), SCAR (ABRASION, RIGHT KNEE)…

Known associates.

> JOHN GRAYSON — FATHER (DECEASED)
> 
> MARY GRAYSON — MOTHER (DECEASED)
> 
> JACK “POP” HALY
> 
> WALLACE WEST — SEE KF075
> 
> CLARK KENT — SEE S01JL
> 
> MARTHA KENT
> 
> JONATHAN KENT
> 
> DIANA PRINCE — SEE WW03JL
> 
> (CONT.)

Skills and abilities.

> ACROBATICS
> 
> MARTIAL ARTS (CAPOEIRA, JUDO, AIKIDO, SAVATE, SAMBO, ETC.)
> 
> STEALTH TRAINING
> 
> FORENSIC/INVESTIGATIVE SCIENCE
> 
> ESCAPOLOGY/SAFE CRACKING
> 
> LANGUAGES (ENGLISH, GERMAN, RUSSIAN, SPANISH, MANDARIN, FRENCH)
> 
> (CONT.)

And, finally, mission reports.

She doesn’t bother with the early ones— _everyone_ knows about the first case, and the subsequent ones are not relevant at the moment—but scrolls down, down, down to the very end. The last case.

The kidnapping of Judge Laurence Watkins by Harvey Dent, a.k.a. “Two-Face”.

Barbara knows the story— most Gothamites do. As a cautionary tale if nothing else. Harvey Dent, the rising star of Gotham’s District Attorney office, the man who put so many of the worst offenders safely behind bars. One of Batman’s greatest allies in his early years. Barbara has a vague memory of meeting him once or twice as a little girl, at GCPD fundraisers with her dad. As far as she can remember, he’d seemed fairly normal. A little patronizing, but she’d been used to that.

And then some mobster he was prosecuting had taken it _personally_. The acid had burned away not just half of his face, but his sanity as well.

_Sometimes I wonder if there is anything left of the Harvey Dent I knew,_ Barbara reads in the case notes. _I knew he struggled sometimes under the weight of the work, but I never would have imagined he was capable of such atrocities … Gordon has expressed concerns over Robin’s involvement in this case, and I agree. He’s not ready. I’ve already informed him that he will be sitting this one out._

(And everyone knows how well _that_ works on Robins…)

There’s a medical report attached to the file. Barbara opens it. She wishes she could be surprised by the picture it lays out, but she’s seen too many atrocities. A man like Two-Face wouldn’t have cared that Robin was a kid, or that he wasn’t even supposed to be there in the first place. If anything, it might have egged him on.

But in spite of the laundry list of injuries, Grayson had survived.

_No more_ , Bruce had written after. _This cannot happen again. Robin was a mistake, one that I cannot allow to continue. I_ _will not_ _watch him die, too._

There’s a scan of a handwritten note. Barbara reads the first two lines and then closes the file, feeling vaguely guilty. And then opens it again, because she is a hypocrite with just as little respect for boundaries as the man who’d mentored her.

> _Dear Bruce,_
> 
> _I guess it’s time for me to move on. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if I’m not allowed to help you anymore. Alfred doesn’t need to worry about entertaining me and taking care of you, too. You don’t want a partner. And you don’t need a son. I’m sorry I failed you. I won’t forget everything you’ve given me. Thanks for teaching me how to be strong._
> 
> _—Dick_

The saddest part is, Barbara could see Jason writing this same letter. Or Tim. Ten years, and Bruce is still making the same mistakes.

If that had been the last file in the folder, it would have been tragedy enough. But it’s not.

She’s an hour into her research when Batgirl pings her.

“Hostage is safe,” Cass says, and in the background there’s the faint but familiar sound of air rushing by. “No injuries. Police have both kidnappers in custody.”

Barbara permits herself a moment of pride. “Excellent work as always, Batgirl. Did you have a chance to look in on the other matter?”

“Yes.” A pause, and the distant noise of a grapple firing. “Saw him fight, a little. He’s out of practice.” Another short pause, and then she adds, “Moves like Robin.”

It’s another confirmation, not that she needs it.

Barbara blows out a breath. “He would,” is all she can say. “What else?”

Cass hums. “Angry,” she says thoughtfully. “He wasn’t using his— head. Impulsive. And… scared. Didn’t want to fight.”

That’s… interesting. “Scared of his opponent?”

“No.”

Barbara considers that. “Did he see you?”

“Yes. He was going to lose, so I helped. Just a smoke bomb, but he knew I was there. Is he a threat?”

“I don’t know,” Barbara admits. “Not directly, I don’t think, but… it’s complicated, and Tim has a _lot_ of explaining to do. What happened after the fight?”

“Another man came and talked to him. They called the police. Didn’t hang around after that.”

“Fair enough.” Barbara’s still only in her twenties, it’s not fair that she’s so _tired_. “Are you heading back?”

“Soon. Pizza first.”

Barbara laughs in spite of herself. “Enjoy it. You’ve earned it. See you soon.”

“See you soon,” Cass echoes happily, and closes the channel.

* * *

Batman and Robin get back to the city just as the sun begins to set behind the Gotham skyline. Barbara knows, because she’s been tracking their plane since they entered US airspace.

By the time Tim makes his way to the Clocktower, night has nearly fallen, and the only lights in her room are the lit computer screens.

Robin comes in through the window. It’s too dark to see much detail, but Barbara knows that if he were seriously injured, Alfred would never have allowed him to sneak out of the Cave.

“How was the mission?” She already knows.

Tim shrugs, one-shouldered. “Fine. Beat up some ninjas. Nothing too exciting.”

Barbara studies him in the dim electronic light. He’s poised—not looking forward to the conversation, but prepared.

“I’m guessing you already spoke to Mr. Caffrey,” she says.

The lenses of Tim’s mask glint white. “Neal called me a little bit ago. He said that Elizabeth Burke got home safely— with a little help.”

Barbara adjusts her glasses. “You should thank Cassandra.”

“I should thank _you_.” Tim steps fully into the room, the edge of his cape caught between restive fingers. “I know that you’re probably— um, not very happy with me right now, but I really _do_ appreciate it. It means a lot to me.”

“He always was your hero,” Barbara says softly.

Tim flinches. “Um.”

“I know,” she sighs. “And no, Tim, I’m not happy. What were you _thinking?_ ”

“I don’t—“ Tim starts, but Barbara raises a hand to cut him off.

“No. You know better than this, Tim. You know, when I first got your text, I assumed the 1047 was for Bruce, but, really, it was for _you_.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I mean, I _was_ actually talking about Bruce…” He sneaks a look at her face and whatever he sees there has him backtracking. “But you’re right, I’m probably too close to this. Um. Are you going to tell Bruce?”

Barbara stifles a groan and pinches the bridge of her nose hard. “Am I going to tell Bruce that you found _Dick Grayson_ running multi-million dollar scams in Manhattan? No, Tim. No, I am not.”

“He’s working for the FBI now,” Tim points out a hint defensively. “So, really, he’s _catching_ the guys running multi-million dollar scams.”

Barbara just looks at him. “As part of his _federal work release_ , Tim!”

“So he’s made some mistakes!” Tim says. “O, he’s— he’s a good person. You can trust him. _I_ trust him.”

Tim— he’s so _young_ , still. He’s barely older now than Barbara was when she _started_ as a vigilante. Violence and loss have made him more jaded than a teenager should really be, but he’s still a _kid_. He still believes in heroes.

She gentles her voice. “It’s not just him I’m worried about. There’s something I want you to look at.”

She brings up the file she’d been looking at earlier. Photographs. Five of them.

“Meet the first and only class of Vengeance Academy.”

Tim studies them, fingers twisting in the hem of his cape. “I’ve seen this already,” he says. “What am I looking for?

Barbara presses a key. “Would you like to see them today?”

The pictures change.

Tim goes pale.

“ _Shit_.”

“Yeah,” Barbara agrees. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we made it! Oracle knows!
> 
> Tim's getting off easy, but only because there's a bigger problem on the horizon.
> 
> Once again, recognizeable quotes (a.k.a. Dick's letter) come straight from _Robin: Year One._
> 
> Thank you guys for sticking in there, and hopefully the next chapter of the main fic will be ready soon!


End file.
